I Don't Dream Anymore
by nailbunny617
Summary: But she won't believe in any dreams anymore.


Title: I Don't Dream Anymore  
Author: nailbunny617  
Fandom: CSI  
Pairing: C/S (but of course)  
Rating: Well, this one sure ain't for kiddies since sex is pretty much a theme here.  
Disclaimer: I own none of these characters and mean no harm by kidnapping them for a little bit. And note that there is femslash, my friend, and this isn't legal for everyone. Now consider yourself disclaimered, k?  
A/N: Inspired by a certain song while watching a CSI rerun on mute (weird habit, I know).

* * *

"But she won't believe in any dreams anymore" 

Magnetic Fields "Dreams Anymore"

* * *

I think about all the things I could say but don't. Her hands are busy divesting me of my shirt and it's all I can do not to cry at the lust in her eyes, their color immeasurably darkened with this electricity between us. I feel like crying a lot when I think about her. 

My hips buck helplessly, giving in to the look of hungry power she always wears during these, the most intimate moments of my life. I wonder if she realizes that I've given her a part of myself no one else ever had. I'll imagine, much later when my brain slows down enough and I'm painfully alone again, that this is exactly the look she used to wear while stripping. Shedding clothes but better protected than any normal person has any right to be. I remember that sexual predators aren't solely male.

Her voice, all throaty and purring, tells me that she owns me, that no one else will ever be able to make me scream. I believe her and can't quite find it in myself to hate her, hate those hands that make me so helpless. And because I've been trained for so long that my feelings don't matter, I might even believe it now.

This is how it always happens: she shows up with that darkly sexual mask firmly in place and with one kiss shatters all my resolve. I try to build myself up, I try to tell her that this isn't enough for me, and I try to tell her I don't like being used…but I've never been very good at lying and that's exactly what it would be. When the doorbell rings I always let her in. I don't think I'd know how to live anymore if she ever stopped showing up.

She only lets me touch her sometimes, and when I do I'm absolutely positive my feelings are pretty damn obvious. My hands on her body, no matter how hard I try, are more worshipful than teasing. More loving than lust-driven. We both know it but we never say anything.

I could tell her that I love her, but she'd probably smile enigmatically at me before assaulting my nerve endings with more pleasure than I know how to handle. There would be no answer, no real acknowledgment of my emotional outpouring. Maybe it's better this way – maybe someday I'll actually believe it's better this way. Because no matter what, I don't think she'll ever say those three little words I've always wanted to hear. I don't think I'll ever hear them from anyone. I'm just going to have to get used to the idea, roll it around and try it out until the sharp edges might stop carving my heart to pieces.

There are too many "maybe"s and "what if"s and "I'll be better off when"s in my life, and they all started the first time she kissed me.

Tonight she lets me make love to her – I use that goddamn cheesy phrase simply because it's never fucking, no matter how hard I pretend otherwise, and it's easier to mock myself than to cry about it. I wonder if she thinks me weak. My hands always start out shaky, almost like I can't believe she allows me in her defenses this far. No matter what else I can convince myself of; I know she's playing games with me. I wonder if she even realizes it, but I can't quite bring myself to believe she's capable of the stark cruelty required for that. She probably thinks she isn't worth anyone's love, even mine. She's probably spent time convincing herself that I don't really love her, that I only love what she does to me. She probably thinks I have as little invested in these trysts as she does. Maybe I'm just projecting this onto her so I don't suffer a complete nervous breakdown.

I don't even remember how this started, except that one day she was at my doorstep and then in my bed. Hell, I didn't know she knew where I live. Every time she leaves, the smooth skin of her back rippling as she dresses quietly, I watch silently. All these words I've left unspoken fill the room to bursting and my chest aches.

As stars explode behind her eyes, hips jerking and hands clutching me to her, I moan with her and mouth the words I long to utter but never will. I love you, Catherine. Later, I'll smell her on my sheets while I sleep, always dreamlessly because even my subconscious is in too much pain to hope, and not even realize I'm crying.


End file.
